


Spider Lily

by spacejargon



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, Supernatural Elements, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-02-07 12:28:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18620638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacejargon/pseuds/spacejargon
Summary: Arthur eats something he shouldn't have.





	1. Lady of the Night

Skeletons dance behind his eyelids. Bones shine like petals in the moonlight, a sanguine pink when blood squeezes through the gaps, drenching bleached white with saccharine crimson. Phantoms twist and dance along with the rattle of bones that dissolve into yawning gasps of smoke that sizzle behind his eyes.

Something is _wrong._

Wrong in the fact that no matter how hard Arthur breathes he can’t catch his breath. Ever since finding it he’s been flushed with a sweat and shivering, feeling his bones rattle in the confines of a human coffin. Long after he’s found himself on the back of a horse—he thinks it’s his, it hasn’t kicked him yet--his hands shake themselves into falling apart. Skin melts rapturously in front of his eyes, not dissolving away no matter how many times he blinks and tries to pretend _it’s not real._

From the corners of his eyes, past the white-knuckle grip on the reins, he catches shadows stretching along the path to follow him down. They _know_ what he’s done. Without having to speak a word of smoke that tangles in his mind, they watch. They stare with eyes unblinking that disappear just as quickly as they appear. Yellowed ad red, he thinks, but he’s always catching them just in the corner of his eye.

Blood always finds him. Seeps from his clothes, his nose, his eyes and ears and oh, _surely_ he’s going to die. There’s no convincing him it won’t happen. Nothing to take away the gnawing pain liquefying his insides and scrambling his brain. What’s done is done and vomiting until his stomach turns inside out won’t save him.

Poison wreaks havoc in his veins. He clamors for the reins when he’s been distracted and suddenly, he and his stallion are up in the air. Frightened by something he can’t see, rearing for a startled screech that breaks the silence. There is no peace, though more is lost when Arthur is too startled, too confused, to remember how to breathe.

Spell broken in a sizzle and snap of ice trickling down his spine, his horse breaks into a run. Arthur aches with every jolt as his head launches into a tipsy spin. Leaning over the side during a particularly rough turn, he empties out the contents of his stomach for the third time. The first two times hadn’t done anything to stop the poison in his veins. Doesn’t remember where he was but the pain, feeling baked beans and bread come right back up in the woods. Splattered on the ground and burned like the fires of hell all the way up.

He kept trying after that, from consuming ginseng to spitting up everything he could squeeze out. Nothing in the bloodstained pools of slick vomit has saved him yet.

Arthur pitches forward, unable to right himself as his horse hammers on. He chokes on a groan, pearlescent pink behind his eyelids. Like the petals of the flower wrongfully picked, chosen for no reason beyond feeling his own body move against him.

There are shadows screeching in the corners of his mind. If he looks to the trees, he’ll be caught on the wicked twists and turns that lie in wait. It spurs on his nervous rush, the unbridled fear that contaminates him. Makes him want to open his mouth—to do what? Scream? Scream because if he doesn’t, he’ll feel the petals slipping back up and falling from his rotten teeth?

He shakes his head to rid himself of the thought, disgusted by the idea, and wraps his arms around his steed’s throat. A placating motion that serves himself more, vision swimming madly as Arthur loses yet another fight with consciousness.

His dreams peel like the burnt film. Black spots cover the edges and rip through visions swirling in his mind. Lights and colors rattle, rumbling with the same chattering appeal of a skeleton picked apart. Flowers come to mind, picked in bright bursts of color that wilt and turn black, dripping like tar while the smell of smoke starts to singe through the border of reality and uncertainty.

There’s screaming—there’s _always_ screaming, somehow—

 _Patience learned is habits burned,_ she spoke in riddles, in tongues that made his head spin. Rotten, ugly teeth hanging by threads of gum smiled at him with a sneer that knew of kindness but did not speak of it. Hands knobbed like the exposed roots of a withered willow cupped his cheek, tipping his head back to expose his throat just to hear him scream.

_You’ll die with an attitude like that, cowboy._

Then she laughed, cackling with a howl of a rabid coyote, danced in his eyes, and then fed him wine so dark it could only be poison.

Left him there, images flashing before his eyes, eclipsing the ride back to Shady Belle where he stumbles upon old structures and the call clipped in two different voices.

One he recognizes. The other he cannot recall.

_“Who goes there!?”_

Dream or not, the face of Charles is a blurry one he has to think to recollect. He remembers Charles, the broad shoulders, the dark eyes, the hands that always knew too much—a burden of filling a cup too full.

 _Arthur,_ he thinks weakly, and rests his head in the crown of blood spilled on his horse’s throat.

~

 _Bad blood_ is the first thing that comes to mind. Charles takes in blood, drenching, and cannot help but notice the perfumed smell of a sickly-sweet rot emanating from Arthur.

“Arthur!” Charles is on him, reins in one hand to the spooked horse dyed black with a strange substance. He’s covered in it, the white patches in his usual mahogany coat completely covered. Only when Charles pulls his hand away and smells the smoke does he register it as ash.

The smell of burnt hair clogs his nose, packing in the stench of old blood. “Arthur, c’mon, let’s get you back to camp.” Hands move to stabilize Arthur’s side, ignoring the squish of blood from sticky clothing pressing back. He turns to camp, Lenny just about to pick up a guard shift as he heads for a repeater near the horses.

“Hey, I need some help over here!”

Arthur moans and his eyes creak open, looking aged a hundred years as he glances up at Charles. Lightning out of the clear sky blue, his eyes, though now possessed with the same electrified burn as he sighs Charles’ name and gags on spit dripping through his teeth.

“Don’t move, Arthur,” Charles speaks into his ear as Lenny starts running. Others turn, their heads snapping up with the commotion. Arthur squirms regardless, wriggling in Charles’ hands that come to brace him before he falls out of the saddle. “It’s okay, Arthur. Let’s get you to bed.”

Arthur comes off the saddle with a stomach-clenching yelp, stumbling as Charles holds him up and Lenny’s got his horse, spooked as the poor thing is. Bill and others close by are already making a move, Miss Grimshaw’s name a common second to Dutch’s.

Charles is walking him into camp, meeting up with Sadie who takes Arthur’s other arm, when Arthur coughs, murmuring over the saliva filling his mouth.

“Ate somethin’…shouldn’t’a done it…” he moans, one hand loosely clinging to his stained shirt. His breath is acrid and something foul, the smell making Sadie’s eyes water as Miss Grimshaw regards them with horror before sending them straight to Arthur’s room.

The stairs are a predictable gamble. John joins the mix, standing behind Sadie to brace her in case Arthur falls, cursing up a storm. Charles manages to get Arthur up without incident, reminding Arthur that Miss Grimshaw’s coming, don’t get impatient now.

When he’s flopped on the bed and John’s wrinkling his nose, _what the hell is that_ on his tongue, Charles tries to get Arthur’s attention. His eyes are clouded in a haze, grunting when Charles pokes at him as gently as he can, hearing Miss Grimshaw’s thundering steps up the stairs.

“What did you eat, Arthur?” he asks, trying and failing to catch Arthur’s eyes. “What happened?”

 “Shouldn’t’a…” Arthur swallows, coughing harshly. His saliva is tinged with blood tinges, making Charles wonder where the hell it’s all coming from. Arthur, ignoring their concerns, looks Charles straight in the eye and then right through him.

His lips move like he’s going to say something, Miss Grimshaw ordering everyone who’s not anyone useful _out,_ but then he sighs. An odd belch slips through before he hunches forward and starts emptying out his stomach all over Charles’ shirt.

Miss Grimshaw regards Charles with a look of sympathy. Her lips twist as Arthur croaks out an apology. “I think it’s best if you leave us now, Mr. Smith,” is all she says, and Charles can only mutely agree.

By the time Dutch has decided to show his head, voice booming down the hallway, Miss Grimshaw knows Arthur’s been poisoned, but with _what_ remains a mystery when Arthur’s vomit turns to coffee grounds.

~

Whatever it is, Miss Grimshaw deems Arthur capable of surviving by nightfall. In her words, “He’ll be sick for a while, but doesn’t seem like it’s still in him.”

Charles contemplates if that’s really _it_ —Hosea and Dutch have been arguing since then whether or not to take Arthur to a doctor. Dutch is staunchly against it, talking about _prices on all our heads_ when Hosea nearly loses his calm when he counters that it’s _Arthur_ they’re talking about.

Miss Grimshaw finds him, haggard in appearance but otherwise still a sharp figure. “He’s been asking for you, and I figure if it doesn’t get any better by tomorrow night, well…” her fingers tap on the wooden table she leans against, hovering over Charles. “You’ll take him into town, won’t you? Dutch and Hosea are going to be up all night about this.”

Charles makes an affirmative, the past few hours turning into strange blips of unaccounted time. Reverend Swanson, called in at first to be the chief examiner and determine what kind of poison Arthur had succumbed to, found Charles shortly after. The words on his lips didn’t make any sense then, talking about _there’s a darkness to him_ and _strange things in Roanoke Ridge, Mr. Smith._

One comment in particular sticks to him like a stubborn burr. Miss Grimshaw had asked it, just as confused as anyone else who’d seen Arthur in his ruined state. _Where is all this blood coming from?_

Arthur had been covered. Drenched like being caught in a bad storm, a grisly pattern painted on his stallion when he first rode into camp. Didn’t make much sense then, but when his clothes were peeled off and no wounds were to be found, it didn’t make much more sense than before.

It only made some sort of sense because Charles had asked him how Arthur was, a bottle in Swanson’s hand when he launched into mistakenly drunken ramblings. He quieted down after a little while, shaking his head with the ghostly paleness of superstitions rattling around in an addled mind.

Kieran had his hands full earlier, the startled sounds of Arthur’s horse making all the other horses uneasy. Charles overhears Kieran call the horse _possessed,_ jumping when the normally gentle horse shrieked and charged him. Bill spits in laughter as Kieran avoids a kick that easily could’ve killed him from trying to get rid the ash in the beast’s coat. Eventually, it ends with the best that can be done, using washing water that runs black and there’s hardly much difference in color by the time Kieran calls it a day.

With Miss Grimshaw’s permission, he heads in to check on Arthur sometime around midnight. Figures he’ll just slip and make sure Arthur’s still breathing while everyone else has already gone to sleep, Dutch and Hosea's argument having fizzled out hours ago now and ending on an uneasy note.

Arthur, of course, has other plans. In the orange light of the lantern sitting on his nightstand, Arthur’s skin has a glossy sheen of sweat. He’s in fresher clothes, old ones soured by vomit and blood, chest still rising and falling while the thin shirt he’s in clings to damp skin.

He can’t help how his eyes slip to the open neck that trails over Arthur’s chest, swallowing before Arthur can catch his wandering eyes. When he meets Arthur’s eyes, however, he realizes that Arthur’s already there, watching him with a subdued interest.

“Hey there, Arthur,” Charles pulls up a chair, grabbing a discarded handkerchief to wipe off Arthur’s brow. “How’re you feeling?”

Sighing through cracked lips, Arthur makes a low rumble in his throat. “Like ‘m dead, Charles.”

Of course he’d crack sarcastic lines as soon as he could catch his breath. Still, a nervous twitch starts at the base of Charles’ spine, no hints of joking in Arthur’s eyes. “Miss Grimshaw says you’ll be alright. Just a bad reaction to poison.” Not even she could get what exactly Arthur had consumed out of him. “Do you remember what you ate?”

Arthur shakes his head, breaths whistling through his nose. Every part of him must be raw and sore, going by how hoarse he is. “Dunno…” his eyes trail off to somewhere beyond Charles, squinting for a second as he tenses for a breath. “Y’wouldn’t believe me, anyway.”

He shakes his head, flexing his fingers that Charles catches with his own. “What’re you talking about, Arthur?” There’s an itch to turn to see where Arthur stares, forgone when Arthur diverts his attention back to him.

Something changes in his eyes. “Y’still gonna kiss a nasty old man like me, Mr. Smith?” he jokes, but the humor’s lacking in his voice. He shivers as if doused in ice despite the heat blazing from his skin. “Can’t blame ya if you’re squeamish over me.”

“Arthur,” Charles chides, but he doesn’t add any heat to it. Arthur still cracks an uneasy smile, like slapping pieces together and hoping they stick. Something’s bothering him, and for whatever reason, he won’t say. “What did you see?”

Arthur tugs at Charles’ hand still in his, bringing it to his lips to press a kiss to Charles’ knuckles. Charles responds in kind, leaning over Arthur while forgoing the debate of whether he should be doing this, and kisses him.

Heated breaths stick to the damp taste of Arthur’s lips. He makes a noise that sounds like contentment, the uneasy flicker of his eyes missed by Charles. The darkest corner of the room seems to stretch and contort, catching his interest as bitterness curls in his gut.

“You okay?” Fingers brush the hair from his face, coming to rest on his cheek.

For just a moment, there’s a flash of recognition, of rotten teeth and yellow cat eyes where Charles used to be. Arthur nearly jumps from his skin, words trickling into his brain as he remembers the laughter over blood slipping down his throat from the mug shoved into his hands.

“D’you see it?” Arthur suddenly whispers, voice dropping to a strained noise. His eyes stare into the black of the darkest corner in the room, just across from the door. Charles turns at his prompting, searching the musty wall as Arthur pales.

He can hear it, too. The rattling clatter of bones set like windchimes that hang on his ears. Charles says something murky, his voice drowned in the panic that creeps into Arthur’s veins and threatens to tear him apart.

“It’s _there,_ Charles,” Arthur insists, not taking his eyes off the corner. Pink slithers behind his eyes when he blinks, jolting him awake. “I—I thought it left, I thought I…”

“What was that?” Charles’ voice breaks through the blood rushing in Arthur’s ears. He shakes his head to clear his mind, Charles’ other hand squeezing his arm all the while. “Arthur, calm down. You’ll make yourself sick again.”

“No, no,” squeezing his eyes shut, a wave of nausea crashes against the walls of his stomach. Skeletons reverberate in the darkness, twisting into shattered petals. Angry eyes burn like red hot coals, the ragged voice of hers snarling in his ear as he’d forced himself to drink what she poured down his throat. She clicked her rattling teeth like the beads of her many bracelets hanging off bony wrists. Touched his palm, watching the poison bloom with ash breaking from her fingers and said _you’re going to die from your own pride._

Picked that one flower, that stood out from the rest as it climbed up the tree to meet his eyes. Should’ve known, from the dead plants and trees surrounding it, that it was parasitic. Should’ve known better than to pick it from its stand and watch as it rooted itself inside of him.

His breath, soured with vomit and blood, tastes as sickly sweet as the flower did. With the same nonchalance as throwing up until he couldn’t see straight, he plucked the flower, pulled his mouth open wide, and pushed it down his throat.

The moment it touched his lips it wrapped its vines around his throat, spreading all the way down until it got a firm grasp on his ribs. He’d felt it then, visions dancing in his head like a man biting the bullet of oleander sage: pungent and strong. The repercussions didn’t kick in until the yellowed eyes appeared, the woman’s voice catching hold of him with a cup to parch his thirst.

Her words rumble in his brain. _You’re going to catch your death, cowboy._

“Arthur, Arthur—hey, there’s nothing there. You’re seeing things—”

Dread grips at his throat, squeezing out a mumbled jumble of words that don’t make any sense. “I did something—don’t know what I—” Icy fingers stretch down his spine, shooting like daggers in his veins and needles drag underneath his skin. There’s the chill, he remembers it as the yawning maw of black, waiting to sink its teeth into him. He remembers stumbling away, shapes becoming unrecognizable and burning tar black, oozing along the ground while stretching like shadows of a fading sun.

He coughs, gagging until he chokes, Charles heaving him onto his side, and retches until black slime paints the floorboards.

_You shouldn’t have done that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What am I doing.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	2. Poison Brew

The flower hadn’t really been pink. It looked that way before he touched it, holding it to the sun where it glittered an obsidian black. Orange dots lined the petals from the inside, painting the strangest lily he’d ever seen. Seemed to keep changing colors the longer he stared.

A voice, _her_ voice _,_ whispered in his ear and guided his hands to pluck the lily standing amongst death and decay. _That isn’t yours, boy._

Her fingers clawed at his throat as soon as he swallowed it down, digging in. _You stole from me._

Arthur finds himself gasping, the rotting ceiling of his room in Shady Belle above him shrouded in the dark of night. Despite the creeping itch under his skin, no one else is here but him. No one is there beside him and the heavy breaths heaving through his chest, swamp air rattling his lungs.

It takes him a moment to sit up, the pitch-black dark of night making it harder to move around without the fear of tripping on something or running into something that isn’t there. Swallowing down that thought, he eases himself into sitting up, waiting.

For what he’s not certain. Only that when Arthur presses himself against the wall, he has to stifle a flinch, shaking it off like dust on his clothes. The swamp itself is alive and dead all at once, with the screaming of cicadas and the occasional splash from the river nearby. Sitting on a graveyard adds to the atmosphere, along with the sinking feeling of actually sinking into the muddy, unstable earth that surrounds Shady Belle with an uncertain foundation.

Reverend Swanson had started mumbling about seeing strange things late at night when Arthur’s illness cleared itself up. After days of drifting through consciousness and his stomach tearing itself apart, he was suddenly fine again as if nothing ever happened. Odd, but he’s never had a history of staying sick for long.

Fumbling for the matches on his nightstand next to an abandoned carton of cigarettes, Arthur catches his fingers on one. Flicking his thumbnail over the head a few times, a flame bursts to life.

Squinting in the sudden light, Arthur catches the pack of cigarettes—not his regular brand. But he remembers them by their semi-sweet smell, reeking of spice. Remembers them well enough, having always smelled them around certain company as he watched Charles roll them up once, while they were on a job in Saint Denis. Staying in the graveyard together, waiting for O’Driscolls looking to rob a recently deceased rich man.

These belong to Charles.

Next to them is a candle Arthur lights before the match can burn his fingers, blowing out the match and tossing it as he plants his feet on the floor. In the back of his mind he pictures Charles as he sits with Arthur late at night, keeping him company in the days Arthur can’t remember except for the burning trail from his mouth to his stomach.

Hauling himself to his feet, Arthur tugs on his jacket and a pair of boots, ignoring the sweat cooling against his skin. His forehead is damp, hair sticking to his face like his wrinkled shirt clings to his chest. It’s a hot and humid night as always, akin to the feeling of boiling alive slowly in this wretched place.

Taking the cigarette pack in hand, Arthur quietly slips out of the room and down the stairs. The floorboards creak under his feet with a groan, each threatening to wake up the others sleeping nearby. He passes over one board that always screeches with the squeal of a banshee, instinctively turning his head to the foyer where Mary-Beth sleeps on the rotting sofa.

She doesn’t wake, mumbling in her sleep with her arms crossed over her chest. Arthur breathes out slowly, quietly sneaking through the front door and closing it behind him.

The air is just as thick and soupy, reeking of sour earth and rot outside of the mansion. A sliver of the moon illuminates some of his surroundings, though lanterns scattered about the camp do more for Arthur’s adjusting eyes.

Settling for the gondola, Arthur makes his way through the night. Up at the entrance is a dark figure, the barely visible shadow of a repeater slung over the guard’s shoulder. Others are about, Arthur notes, spotting another figure hanging close to the water’s edge, cloaked in shadows.

The sights don’t make him freeze as much as they used to. Since coming back half out of his mind and throwing up the rest of it, Arthur’s been a little more cautious. If cautious can be called jumping at nearly every sound or feeling unease turn into nausea when the sun disappears from the sky at night.

Settling into the gondola overlooking the river, Arthur props up one leg and leans back, sucking in a breath and sighing deeply.

Fatigue wears at his eyes with each blink. His heart thumps with insistence though not overly eager, as sure-footed as a fleet-footed fox.

Minutes pass in relative peace, Arthur’s fingers dug into his pocket with the pack of smokes, tracing the edges of the box. Mindlessly, he muses over who’s on guard shift tonight, unable to discern who’s who when all he can see is blurred shapes covered in black.

Missing the rap of knuckles on wood, Arthur is startled out of his silence when another voice interrupts the screaming of cicadas.

“Mind if I sit here?”

Calming his frazzled nerves, Arthur clears his throat. “Uh, no, you’re good,” he mutters aloud, fumbling some as Charles’ face comes into view, the man taking a seat beside him.

In the light of a nearby lantern sitting in the middle of the gondola, Arthur can see him far better. A note of familiarity plagues him when his eyes dart back to where the guard at the edge of the swamp was, finding absence in his place.

The repeater laid on the bench next to him confirms his suspicions. Charles meets his eyes with a kind face.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” Arthur hums, “couldn’t sleep. Too hot.”

Charles chuckles lowly. “That it is. I’ve been listening to Javier’s complaining all night.” His gaze heads toward the swamp’s river, thinking. “I think I’d rather be hot than risk the swamp.”

“Not like it’ll make much of a difference, water’s just as hot.” An ease settles comfortably into Arthur’s bones, loosening his tongue. “Think I’ll head out in the morning and get away for a bit. Haven’t been doing much anyway, so I figure I better get a head start before Dutch gets on my case.” Then, he mulls over his next words, choosing blindly. “You, uh, you wanna come?”

Charles’ lips break into a small smile. More like a quirk of his lips in the corner of his mouth, but it still enraptures Arthur’s attention all the same. “Sure. Where are you headed?”

Then comes the squeamish feeling in his guts. “Ambarino,” Arthur bites out, dizzy for a moment. “Gotta look for some type of flower for a feller in Saint Denis, says he’ll pay me good if I get him a couple, says they grow up in the mountains.” He thinks, wracking his brain for a name. “They’re orchids. Lady of the Night, I think. We can go hunting on the way back and bring Pearson something for the trouble.”

Charles nods, thinking. His lips twitch, brows furrowing as his eyes trail off, attention going elsewhere for a moment. “Weren’t you just up there?” he settles on, his voice a low murmur Arthur finds himself hesitant to face.

“Yeah, found one there but I doubt it’s good anymore.” He hasn’t even checked his own satchel to see if the flower he delicately wrapped is still there. If it is, it’s probably dead by now. “Could use the money,” he offers with a touch of guilt. “And it’s not like anyone’s talkin’ to me yet, after scarin’ John out of his wits when I was puking my guts out.”

“More like you punched him when he tried to hold you down. You were shouting like a man possessed.”

There’s a hiss of flame sputtering to life once Charles strikes a match against the bench. In his fingers is a cigarette, cradled there as he lights it and breathes in smoke. The sight reminds Arthur of his hand in his pocket, thinking it would look better in the place of that cigarette, and then of Charles’ cigarettes.

“Oh, hey, you left these in my room,” Arthur extends his hand, offering the mostly empty box to Charles. “Must’ve forgot about them while I was laid up.”

Charles meets his fingers with his own, sliding them over the top of Arthur’s. He shakes his head, pushing Arthur’s fingers to curl over the box. “Keep them, if you want. I can make more.”

“Thanks,” is all he says, catching himself staring as he doesn’t immediately pull away. Charles watches him curiously, warmth in his eyes alongside the flickering lantern light.

Hooking the tips of his fingers under Charles’, Arthur tugs gently; a suggestion. Charles’ gaze moves from Arthur to their fingers and then back to Arthur, rising from his seat. He follows Arthur’s hand to him, leaning down over Arthur as he stands above him.

After pulling the cigarette from his lips, Arthur leans up and kisses him, coaxing him further down as the cigarette is left on the railing. Neither of them pays it any heed, smoke stolen from Charles’ lips filling Arthur’s lungs with a pleasant burning heat.

Smoke clouds his eyes and nose, drowning Arthur in the taste of Charles. Charles’ lips slide against his with ease under the cover of night, dry with the hint of wet breaths burning with the taste of nicotine on his tongue. One arm braces Charles against the railing behind Arthur, long dark hair falling over Charles’ shoulders and tickling Arthur’s cheek.

Arthur threads his fingers in Charles’ long hair and drinks in the low noise he earns in response. He kisses him deeply, turning his head to escape the brush of lips to feel Charles’ tongue trace the seam of his mouth.

“Ain’t they gonna miss ya?” Arthur huffs over a low breath, belly gradually warming as every nerve vibrates under his skin with a pleased hum. His eyes travel to the river where the water ripples from a scaly body slipping into the murky waters.

Charles kisses him again, insistent until Arthur forgets about the river before he kisses him in earnest. “They won’t notice,” he sighs against Arthur’s lips, leaning his weight on a knee parting Arthur’s legs on the bench.

“Making a good case there, Mr. Smith,” Arthur’s eyes slide shut as he breathes in the smell of Charles deeply. He holds it until he’s lightheaded, spice chasing the sweet, floral scent from his mind.

Leaning back, Charles pulls away from Arthur, watching as Arthur snatches the cigarette and takes a deep drag. Charles plucks it from his lips, smoke curling after his fingers as Arthur watches him through heavily lidded eyes.

An unexpected breeze shifts through the stale air, taking Arthur’s next breath along with any sense of unease.

The low murmur of Charles hardly survives against the roaring cicadas and crickets drowning him out. “When are we leaving?”

Nicotine buzzing on his tongue, Arthur’s eyes flick to the slip of the moon fading away as the night wears on. “Dawn, maybe before that. You won’t be too tired, right?”

A hand claps Arthur’s shoulder, squeezing firmly. “Don’t worry about it.” Charles takes another drag of his cigarette, burning through the last of it. “Get some rest, I’ll see you at dawn by the entrance.”

Snuffing his cigarette out on the railing, Charles raises his hand in a wave, grabbing his repeater and heading back to the swamps. Arthur watches him go, his fingers still curled around the reused pack of cigarettes, the taste of them on his tongue.

He lights up another as Charles disappears into the dark, leaving him to the screaming silence of the witching hours creeping upon him.

~

Already a couple of days’ ride out from camp, Arthur and Charles reach mid-New Hanover as the late afternoon sun bears down on them. The past few days have been amicable, quiet after getting past the border from Lemoyne to New Hanover. Arthur finds himself in between comfortable silences and long talks about nothing in particular, finding solace in Charles’ company. Charles seems to be enjoying himself, still sleeping beside him at night when Arthur’s learned from him that he has a habit of snoring.

When he looks at him, there is nothing he wouldn’t do for Charles. Of all things he may doubt in this world, that isn’t one of them.

“Hey, Charles,” Arthur suddenly interrupts the growing silence between them as they take this barren road. The last person they passed was about two hours ago in a wagon, clutching his shotgun tightly as they rode past him in a bid to keep their heads. “I been thinking.”

“Uh oh,” Charles jokes from the side before turning to Arthur’s scowl. “What about?”

“I know I don’t remember much, but I was up in Ambarino that time looking for these flowers and got lost in some woods.” Dredges of anxiety seize him, bitterly reminded of creeping shadows and the gnawing at his mind as his throat squeezed itself shut. “I found some weird flower while I was looking.” He coughs, suddenly remembering how stupid he sounds. “I mean, I was looking for the flowers while doing other stuff, like checking out what game was in the area. Saw some big moose and found some trails where it’d be easy to rob some unsuspecting morons.”

Charles raises a brow at him, Taima keeping pace with Arthur’s horse, Blue, at an easy trot. “What did it look like?” he pauses, clarifying. “The flower.”

“Pink, with orange dots on the petals. Think it was a lily.” A shudder runs from the base of his neck to the bottom of his spine. “I… When the sun touched it, it turned black.”

A chill wedges itself underneath Arthur’s fingernails, streaking up his arms and dousing him with icy fingers. When he closes his eyes, he remembers the strange flower and the sudden urge to take it, not stopping as his fingers grasped the stem at its base and _pulled._

“You okay there, Arthur?” Charles asks, riding Taima closer to him. Concern contorts his expression into that of worry, his dark brown eyes searching Arthur closely. “What happened?”

“I…” he swallows, mind racing with memories and debating on what to say. Part of him wants to spill everything, despite the fact he’d sound like a lunatic to Charles. The rest of him wants his mouth to stay clamped and swallow his own damn tongue for getting him in trouble. Charles is worried for him; he’s said as much since they left Shady Belle and asked if Arthur was up for this trip.

Bear claw markings coated every other tree in those woods. The forest echoed only distant sounds of birds, leaves and grass rustling under Arthur’s feet then as he traipsed about. Only then he hadn’t concerned himself with it, slinging his rifle over his shoulder in case he should come across a bear.

When he pulled that flower, he didn’t see a bear. No, no—in front of him stood a figure draped in shadow, drenched in the darkest black. An ugly sneer to its face obscured under a hood, but it burned itself into Arthur’s mind when the thing spoke to him.

_That isn’t yours._

What happened next is a mystery to him yet. Dimly he remembers blurs, of a sudden panic coursing through his veins as he’d stood there, mute in the presence of something unnatural towering over him. She, going by the shrill voice in which she used to taunt him with, had glared at him and froze him in place, rooting his feet to the spot with her stern reprimand.

_I told you not to come in these woods._

Then her voice changed, cooing to him in the same note she’d been growling at him like a rabid dog. _Told_ him to take the flower, which shone as dark as tar cut by moonlight, and he could only watch as his hands moved on their own accord.

The petals felt as soft as silk in his fingers when he cupped them. If he looked closely, he could still see the original pink that they once were. But instead of admiring the flower his hands moved, pulling the flower from its stem and raising it to his face.

_You shouldn’t have done that._

It _burned_ when the petals first touched his lips, the figure’s smile splitting its face as it grew wide and nasty with wicked desire. Watched him then, as he choked and sputtered and tried to pull away from his own body, only to remain helplessly trapped.

He can’t remember every last word she spoke to him, but remembers that they were scathing. Cruel and vicious, like the pain that started when the petals turned to knives and cut through him when they lodged in his throat.

Just recalls the coughing, the fire in his throat as he felt himself scream from the agony robbing him blind. He can remember her laugh now, the throaty, dust-laden cackle that could split the earth like a fissure to swallow him up.

“…Arthur? Arthur, what’s wrong?”

Charles grounds him in reality to take in the sinister prickling of memory, fading fast as Arthur shakes his head to dismiss his thoughts.

Blue snorts and bobs his head, ears pinning as Arthur reaches out to stroke the beast’s neck in apology. It doesn’t do much, but it eases the burn when Arthur swallows and chooses his next words, adrenaline boiling in his veins much like when he first bolted, scrambling on weak legs as he ran and didn’t look back.

“I saw something I wasn’t supposed to see,” is all he says, tasting blood and flowers on his tongue. “And I think it’s still there.”

~

They settle into camp once they reach Ambarino, pushing through the early night until the moon is high in the sky to set up camp. Taima and Blue are hitched up nearby, both sweaty and dirty from a long day of riding. Before reaching Ambarino, Arthur had challenged Charles to a race, seeing who could cross into the state before the other when the sun was beginning to set.

Now with a fire going courtesy of the huntsman, Arthur takes his place next to him after setting up their tent. It’s a little cozy, sure, but it’s been used for two for so long that on the days he does camp in the wilderness, it feels empty without Charles.

Not like he’d admit that, though.

Charles hands him an opened package of salted venison, half of it torn off, along with a wedge of cheese. Before Arthur takes a bite, graciously accepting their improvised meal, he remembers the two cans of beans he’d taken from his saddlebags and put in his satchel, handing one to Charles.

The sounds of a knife cutting through the metal tin greet him as the fire crackles in front of them. “I’m surprised you’re still awake after all this,” Arthur mentions, tearing into the dry jerky. “I figured you’d be dead on your feet after today.”

“Nope,” Charles replies, a little too quickly to be entirely sincere. He catches Arthur’s inquisitive glance with a sly smile. “I am tired, though.”

An owl hoots overhead, jolting Arthur out of his tired haze. In the distance, coyotes yip as they weave through the trees. “Not tired enough to beat me in a race though, now are ya?”

Charles chuckles, setting down his can of beans. Using a hand to wipe his mouth, he finds it caught in Arthur’s fingers before Arthur pulls it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of Charles’ hand.

“You don’t seem too upset by losing,” Charles remarks, raising a brow as Arthur presses kisses to the backs of his knuckles. “I wasn’t sure I would win.”

“Oh, don’t start,” Arthur grumbles, Charles’ fingers cupping his cheek. He lets them sit there, a thumb stroking his face while he admires Charles in the firelight. “You’re a cheater. Cheated ‘cause you knew I’d win and you’re a sore loser.”

“And how did I cheat, exactly?” Arthur follows Charles’ hand and pulls the other into a kiss, tasting of baked beans and salt. He laughs quietly as Arthur slides himself closer, taking full advantage of Charles being distracted.

However, his wandering hands don’t go very far. Charles catches them soon enough, stopping Arthur in his tracks. Arthur doesn't notice his boot kicking against metal in the grass, preoccupied by other means. Though Charles doesn’t turn away from the kisses he receives, he doesn’t think to let Arthur have any sort of leverage over him. 

Physically and figuratively speaking, of course.

Instead, he interrupts with something completely different than what Arthur wants to hear. “You knocked over your beans,” he says, his eyes trailing after the can of beans rolling down the small hill they’re on.

“What the—” Arthur curses as he pulls himself out of Charles’ embrace and to his feet reluctantly, giving chase. He curses all the while, the sounds of stumbling reaching Charles before Arthur returns, holding the offending can of beans with a decidedly sour look of a ruined moment.

“Damn it,” muttering under his breath, Arthur takes his seat once more. His attention goes to the horses quietly grazing next to each other, relaxed in the silence offered by the forest. The swamp is far louder, he realizes, though it’s not as bad as the first night spent in the swamps.

Charles works his way through the rest of his beans, tipping his head back to swallow the remaining contents of his tin. Arthur finds himself staring as Charles’ throat bobs with each swallow, a trail of juice leaking from the side of his mouth.

When Charles turns his eyes to him, Arthur hurriedly stuffs the rest of his cheese in his mouth and immediately regrets it. He chews over the sharp tang, squinting as the salty taste sucks the rest of the moisture from his mouth and goes down dry. A few swallows later, his stomach sits uncomfortably while his mouth runs dry.

“Alright?”

Arthur waves a hand, pushing away his salted venison. The salt will make him as dry as the jerky if he doesn’t get anything to drink, but he’s too lazy to grab his water skin sitting in their tent.

“Forgot I’m an old man and I’m gonna dry up like a prune if I keep eating that,” Arthur grunts, shifting in place to get comfortable. It doesn’t work, hunched over close to a fire while his back complains from nights of sleeping on hard ground. “Getting too old for this,” he scowls, rubbing at his lower back.

Charles rolls his shoulders back, eliciting a few pops. He glances to the fire as he rises to his feet, looking down at Arthur. “Think I’ll head in.”

“I’ll join you,” Arthur chimes in, remembering his unopened can of beans and the rest of his meat. They can wait, he decides.

Charles shoots him a knowing look, offering a hand. Arthur takes it, pulled to his feet as he remembers to grab his satchel and the can of beans and jerky in it. He tosses it to the tent, nailing the flaps and watching as it disappears inside of the tent and thumps against a bedroll.

They settle in, Arthur very much aware the tent is too small for two grown men but not caring in the slightest. He shoves his satchel off to the side, his arm bumping against it while Charles tucks himself underneath his blanket.

“How much further are we going?” Charles asks, lying on his back. His hair falls messily around him, which Arthur is careful to not pin under a limb lest he risks his life. Despite knowing that Charles willingly lies with a nasty old man like Arthur, he’s well aware Charles would probably kill him if Arthur accidentally sat on his hair.

“A little further north, when the soil changes.” Shadows cast over the tent capture the flicker of flames from the fire, reaching over the cover of the tent. The shadows splay beyond their tent, painting the ground while basking in the orange glow. “Ground’s not quite right here. At least, that’s what that flower guy said.”

Charles nods, thoughtful. He doesn’t say anything else. After a short while his hand snakes into Arthur’s bedroll, fingers pressing against the skin of Arthur’s collarbone.

They lie in silence, Arthur watching the shadows of fire twist and dance overhead with Charles’ fingers stroking his collar. He finds himself lost in staring, an itch of dread curling in his toes and settling deep in his gut long after Charles falls asleep.

Listening to Charles’ breaths evening out, he tries not to think of shadows above him and painted behind his eyes. He takes deep breaths as soon as he feels his throat constrict, trying and failing to shove intrusive thoughts from the forefront of his mind.

Despite his best efforts, the slither of anticipation creeps between his ears. On the cusp of falling asleep, warm and relaxed with the need to close his eyes, he hears a voice.

_You’ll catch your death out here, boy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have two speeds: write everything at once or radio silence.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	3. Witch's Bane

It’s another day’s ride up north to find the elusive lady of the night orchids Arthur promises are worth something. Though as they burn away daylight and travel up the sloping hills breaking into mountains, the forests grow thicker around them. Charles means to say something while he’s helping Arthur search, catching claw marks on trees every now and then.

Rifles are slung over their shoulders just in case. Arthur mentions something about black bears being common here, but easy enough to scare off. Charles believes him as much as he can, though it’s a different story if they happen upon one for themselves.

As Charles inspects a patch of violet snowdrops, tuned into the sound of Arthur’s footsteps not too far behind him, he hears a noise.

“Found it!” Arthur turns to Charles, holding up a delicate slip of an orchid. With petals as pale as the moonlight, the orchid looks ghostly in comparison to the surrounding foliage. Mixed greens and reds, sometimes with spots of purple from the snowdrops, have no place for such a pale beauty.

Yet Arthur cradles the strange orchid in his hands, mindful of the roots. He wraps it in wax paper from his satchel, having emptied it out earlier to not crush the flowers.

“Let’s see…” Arthur hums to himself as he pulls out a slip of paper from his pocket, reading over the contents. “Four more, that should do it.”

Charles gives him a curious look. “Four more?” He glances up at the midday sun, thinking. “It took us two hours to find that one.”

Shrugging his shoulders, Arthur’s attention redirects to the gently sloping hillside they’re at the bottom of. “Should head up, that’ll take us to the thicker part of the forest.” He squints at the shadows of leaves on the ground, watching as they dance.

The suggestion doesn’t immediately sound odd. Though the further they progressed before, Charles could tell something about him was off. Maybe it’s just his own growing wariness, slipping into these forests where the outside noise is deadened to a low hum. From Arthur’s account of what happened a week ago, he isn’t readily forgoing caution.

“You sure that’s a good idea?” he asks, catching another clawed tree about twenty feet away. More bear marks. Funny, he hasn’t seen any wildlife around here. Heard it, though mainly birds and the occasional rattle of a bush.

The hard set of Arthur’s jaw develops the moment Charles asks. “It’ll be fine.” He lacks any sort of conviction to convince Charles. Let alone himself, the line of his shoulders growing tense. “Not like I’m looking for trouble, Mr. Smith.”

“No, trouble seems to find you easily.” Charles stalks over to Arthur, the other’s back turned to him as he surveys the hillside. Taima and Blue can easily climb it, though that’s not what plagues his conscience.

When he puts a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, approaching from behind, Arthur very nearly jumps out of his skin. Instead, he acts like it’s a shock, turning to Charles with a darkness in his eyes.

Behind his eyes he sees pearls of pink dotted with orange. Guilt haunts Arthur as Charles observes him closely, scrutinizing all aspects of him. Analytical as he is, he could take Arthur apart and lay him out by his intentions, down to the last shred of _why_ there’s a compulsion to keep climbing the mountains.

Sucking in a deep breath, Arthur sighs. “Okay. I know you’re gonna think I’m crazy but hear me out—I ain’t trying to go and get you or me killed. Hell, I barely remember what happened, and what I do, it don’t make any sense. You wouldn’t believe it, ‘cause even I don’t.”

He waits for Charles to say something, the huntsman’s hand still resting on Arthur’s shoulder with a reassuring warmth. It feels wrong, in a sense, with words on his tongue and the denial that saying them will mean anything at all.

“What makes you think I won’t?”

“You’ll think I’ve lost my damn mind,” Arthur hisses, feeling Charles squeeze his shoulder and hold him in place. “Listen, we’re up here for the flowers. We can go hunting too, since I know these woods have game. I’m not saying I dragged you out here to go back to whatever tried to kill me, but I…” Shaking his head, he catches his lower lip between his teeth and worries at it. “I don’t know. I want to know what happened, but I don’t. All I remember is seeing things and hearing a voice in my head.”

“You were poisoned.” Dark eyes squint at Arthur, processing. “I don’t know how or why, but you were out of it.” He’s careful with his words, cautious but offering an inch. If Arthur takes that and turns it into a mile, well… “You can tell me anything, Arthur. I’ll always believe you.”

Arthur sucks in a breath and holds it, itching for a cigarette. But his lungs ache at the thought so he declines on that thought, instead focusing on the slow burn of his lungs running out of air to settle the disquiet abruptly seeking out the corners of his mind.

“I was, y’know, doing this. Went up further north ‘cause it’s real quiet, lots of hills with wildlife. And you know I don’t believe in nothing, especially not some fever dream come to life.”

Charles stares at him expectantly and Arthur may as well sigh all the breath out of his lungs.

“I saw a flower, looked kinda pink and orange, like a lily. Real pretty, and figured it was rare. Next thing I know, I…the flower was black. And there was something standing in front of me.” He makes a pained face, grimacing while Charles is too perfect in being calm and well—being Charles. So damn patient. “Old hag. Sounded like one, anyway. She…kept sayin’ things, and the flower was gone, and I started coughin’ something fierce, and…” he touches a hand to his mouth, ghosts of the petals that fell there. “Started losin’ my damn mind.”

A hand touches his, having left his shoulder moments before. Charles is infinitely patient with him, which feels like a blessing and a curse for a man who deserves one or the other. And patience ain’t something for a man like him.

While he’s lost in the foray of confused thoughts swirling around the drain in his mind, Charles laces their fingers together, then holds them up. Arthur doesn’t notice until another hand touches his face and tilts his chin to meet a warm pair of lips.

“Okay,” Charles regards him carefully, convinced, when he pulls away a long moment later. “Let’s go.”

“Wait—you’re serious?” The taste of him still lingers on his lips, setting them alight and chasing away the darkness behind his eyes. “Charles, this ain’t more than nothin’, just an old man’s nightmares gettin’ the best of him.”

Charles shakes his head, his long hair splaying over his shoulders like the wings of a raven stretched to take flight. The sun that breaks through the trees catches on him and does little justice as he stands there like he was made in its image.

“Maybe it’s not,” he continues, firm as their fingers remain entangled. “Whatever happened, I think you might get some peace if you see for yourself.” Then he fixes Arthur with a softer look. “I believe you, Arthur.”

“Okay,” he glances to the road ahead, made of brush and forest. “Okay.”

~

Not far from the Wapiti reservation, Charles observes as the two climb the trails. The forest thins out around them, not as suffocating as before. Nonetheless, Arthur counts more and more trees covered with scratches, deep gouges in their bark oozing sap as red as the clay in Rhodes. One of them, Charles finds, looks like a face.

Here is where the silence greets them. The woods are sparse and strange with birds always calling in the distance, but never nearby. Must have to do with the twigs that snap under their boots and the crunch of dried leaves that forces them to flee, but _still._

The air is strange and thin, not unlike that of higher elevations than the swamps and plains land the gang has been converging in for the time being. Leaves rustle with the occasional breeze, which should be common here in the mountainous Ambarino, but it’s as though all life here in this spot of woods is dead and gone.

Blue and Taima refuse to come any closer when Arthur recognizes the area. He guides them, deciding on tying Blue and Taima to keep them from bolting, though if they tug hard enough, they should be able to flee. Bears are his concern, though as Charles observes trees with scratch marks, he looks too deeply to believe that they come from bears.

When Arthur spots the shack, he goes stock still for a long pause. Charles notices it too, disguised with old and dead tree branches and bits. He comes to a stop beside Arthur, squinting through the thicker patch of trees surrounding the house as curiosity tickles at the base of his skull.

“You okay?” he asks, breaking the spell of silence when Arthur shakes his head, frowning, but then nods.

Spots of pink catch Arthur’s attention. “Hey,” he calls, with the voice of warning. “Those lilies over there?”

Charles squints. The pink he mentions is on the other side of the house, which is too thick to see through clearly. “Guess we’ll have to go see.” At his hip is his sawed-off shotgun, dangling precariously. Arthur’s armed too, with a rifle strapped around his shoulders. “Be careful.”

Arthur grunts with a roll of his eyes. “Course I’m always _careful,_ ” he insists, right before he steps wrong and falls into a collapsed marmot hole and trips over himself. He brushes himself off without accepting Charles’ help, pointedly ignoring the raised brow in his direction. “You’re very distracting, Mr. Smith,” he murmurs, and Charles can’t help but smile.

“Hush,” his eyes go to trees with deep gouges in them, the scratches cut all the way through to the inner layers. The fresher ones weep with red sap despite how dead the trees appear to be, gray and stiff with the lifelessness of a corpse. Older scratches are scarred and stained with deep red, which smells faintly bitter like old coins in the bottom of a copper pot.

The house is a moderately sized one. It’s not so much a house as it retains the shape, with deadened vines acting as walls and logs that hold up the framework. As Charles and Arthur step around, Arthur leading the way, the flicker of flames catches his attention and he reaches the front, glancing inside.

“What the—?” Arthur steps back suddenly, nearly bumping into Charles. Charles follows his line of sight, straight into the house with dozens of candles on the ground, pooled in old wax that varies from the deepest shades of maroon to the brightest vermillion he’s ever seen. The fresh wet puddles look like blood. Yet the candles themselves are black as night.

“What the hell?” Arthur ventures forth, either ignoring the eerie and oddly intense feel of the small cabin—if it can be called that—and steps closer to the door. On the inside are hundreds, he realizes, of animal bones scattered about the place. Rib cages, spines, other miscellaneous ones, all skitter across the ground like a macabre garden. At the corners of the room he finds skulls, stacked like totem poles from elk to bear. Some of them, too broken to be distinguished clearly, look unlike animal ones.

A chill creeps up Charles’ spine as he manages a glance. His attention goes to the big bubbling pot that reeks of graveyard dirt, a strange musty smell that’s wet and ancient. Caution grips at him but misses Arthur as it slips through its bony fingertips and he proceeds to go inside the house.

“Arthur, wait—” he follows, calling out to him. “This place doesn’t seem right.” Which of course it doesn’t, obviously, but it calls to him in a strange fashion. The mantle of bones and the pooling puddles of wax scratch an itch buried deep within his mind, dredging it up as he breathes in the air that is rank and heavy with an ominous taste.

Arthur turns to face him, looking a little pale but otherwise fine. “What d’you mean?” he asks, genuinely curious as he surveys the small cabin and the strange fixings that decorate the floor and the walls. A skeleton of a snake hangs in the vines of the wall, stretching much longer than any snake Arthur has ever seen. “Place gives me the creeps.”

When he was young, Charles’ mother used to tell him their tribe’s stories of witches. Dark beings that lured the young and unaware to their witching grounds. Places where evil could rise through the cracks of the earth—and did, she warned him. The elders used to talk of warnings to all of them, of being alone or letting children wander too far.

“I remember stories my mother used to tell me.” Vaguely, though, but she spoke with the hushed murmur of belief and Charles, young as he was, never faltered when she told him stories. “My mother told me legends of witches. Evil spirits that took form to lure you to your death. They could curse the ground you lived on and the food you ate, if you let them.”

Arthur makes an intrigued noise. “Well, certainly looks the part.” He turns, Charles notices, from the corner of his eye. Away from the staggering amount of bones that look too strange to all be coincidence, either lured or taken by sacrifice. Either way, it all feels wrong.

But then Arthur’s turning toward the bubbling pot, at least a hundred times bigger than Pearson’s stew pot and it looks far ancient than anything he’s ever seen. Inside it there is a strange gray liquid, matching the color of the cauldron as it lazily bubbles and gurgles with a mysterious air to it.

Arthur, ever curious, leans forward. “What the hell is this…?” he murmurs aloud, stepping too close and forgetting the lit kindling beneath the pot near his feet. He jumps back, bumping into the wall and tripping over a bone skittering underneath his feet and pitches forward.

His satchel catches on a splintered piece of wood nesting the cauldron in place, caught at an angle and jerked with the motion.

The flowers, the ones they’d been collecting and the whole reason for this trip, are the first to fall out of Arthur’s satchel. He curses when they fall in, Charles only aware by the sound when he glances outside to the patches of pink that materialize as flowers with spindly petals.

“Hey, those flowers—” Charles starts, turning toward Arthur as a spell weaves itself into place and roots him to the ground.

As if struck deaf, Arthur is leaning over the pot, holding his tin mug in hand and dips the cup into the bubbling liquid.

“Arthur, what are you doing?” Charles calls, a ragged chill splitting painfully in his legs as if he’s been turned to ice. It burrows in his stomach when Arthur raises the cup and he realizes what exactly he’s doing. “Arthur, stop! What are you doing!?”

His eyes jerk him back to the flowers outside, the sun parting from the cloudy skies ahead and slowly lighting up the dead forest. When the light touches the flowers, they shine an eerie coal tar black, no longer the pearlescent pink he’d witnessed only moments before.

The orchids from Arthur’s satchel sit at the top before sinking into the bubbling depths, gone unnoticed when Arthur brings the mug to his lips and drinks.

He calls out Arthur’s name, watching as Arthur seems to lose any sort of life to him and drops like a stone, when shadows grow from the corner of his eyes and rush at him from the mounds of bones.

~

He comes to with a startled cough. It deepens, feeling like he’s stirred up the dust of a few hundred years when he does and the coughing turns to hacking. Even then, slowly lifting his head from his chest, Charles feels like he’s been asleep for a thousand more.

The first thought that comes to mind— _Arthur_. Who he finds beside him, slumped against a pile of bones and looking frighteningly lifeless. He doesn’t stir at Charles’ coughing, his clothes coated in what looks like ash with the gray sheen that clings to him.

The vines around him become apparent when he tries to breathe. In front of them a shadow stands, materialized into the form of pitch-black robes. As if wearing the shadows itself, it stands with a hunch, kneeling down to Arthur to lift up his chin and watch his head flop as soon as she drops it.

“Hey!” Charles snaps, coaxing the rest of his body to wake up when it stubbornly refuses to move. “Leave him alone!”

He hears a sneer of bitterness and it turns his stomach. “I didn’t think he’d bring company,” it— _she_ growls, with a voice like it’s been raised from death and rattles like a box of rusty nails. Charles blinks, dizzy for a sudden moment, and when he opens his eyes, he can catch the faintest sight of glowing coming from Arthur. “Much more trouble. A cowboy and his Indian, coming here all on their own? That I didn’t expect. One soul is going to keep me, but two? I couldn't ask for better despite the circumstances.”

She leans down over Arthur again, pulling his head up by his chin and then purses her lips. The whitish glow around Arthur grows stronger, slipping like fog from him and swallowed by the witch. The sight strikes Charles as entirely bizarre. Up until he catches the murmuring under her breath and the ash pooled at her feet.

“Stop it!” he snarls, easily defeated by the dead vines that hug him tighter when he fights again. “Leave him alone!”

The witch smacks her lips and turns to him, and then he catches sight of the face of a young woman, but only just. Her hair is as pale as moonlight and her skin is as white as a corpse’s, stretched around her face with a ghostly projection. When she turns, he can see it flicker and disappear, revealing a much older, ancient faces gnarled with the scars of rot and a deep scowl.

“Your friend here took what was mine before I was ready,” she says, talking to him as if he were a naughty child. The disgust in her voice doesn’t let him think she has anything other than ill will toward him. “He walked into my woods and stole my flower. Pretty little things, aren’t they?”

She turns toward the bubbling cauldron and drops in the same lilies, ones that look to be decaying as they converge from shades of pink to inky black, falling into the cauldron without so much as a sound. Their thin petals, small and long, remind him of spider legs. The cauldron bubbles and pops, swallowing the flowers whole.

“He swallowed it. All it took was a little persuasion,” she crows, a ghost of a cackle on her lips. Other things appear from her sleeves, worn in her mangled hands. A pair of bat’s wings drop after the flowers; a rat’s tail, a pair of wet eyes that look animalistic, parts that look like organs, a silvery yellow liquid, and finally, a small sprinkling of tiny little bones.

Charles doesn’t recognize the animal until she reveals the skull: that of an infant.

When the skull sinks into the brew it disappears in a cloud of poisonous black. The pot’s content start to swirl and deepen in color to a jet black with each stir.

Horror grabs Charles tight in a vice as the witch pays him no mind. “Your friend drank far too early. Seeing as he made me wait, I figured I’d make _you_ watch.” Her back turns to him as the vines suddenly grow thorns, cutting into his skin as they squeeze around him tightly. “You don’t look like those pesky Wapiti around here, boy.”

A candle hovering over the cauldron burns black. The wax itself is black, but the flames flicker black as the cauldron belches with an unforgettable stench. Death is the best way to describe it, with the nauseating air of rot drifting through his nose while he watches the candle, black as it is, drip red wax.

Only the wax isn’t wax. It’s far too thick and smells bitter, just like the trees oozing their own blood.

A bony finger that looks like the root of a weathered oak tree jabs at him, pointing at him accusingly. “You and your people hunt me down and take away what’s mine. Then you come after me, when all I ask is that you take your death and not fight it.” Her ghostly younger face flickers and fades, reappearing and disappearing like the opposing beat of a heart. “You’re all useless. _Wasteful_ little creatures, no better than vermin.”

She steps closer to him, ash trailing behind her as she leans and meets his eyes with a grizzled glare. “I’ll enjoy sucking out his soul in front of you. You two seem close,” she hisses, “though you’re not what I want, I’ll take what’s offered to me.”

“I’ll kill you before you can.” Charles threatens, though finding it useless when he can hardly move. Instead, he ignores her cackle and turns to Arthur. “Arthur, Arthur, you need to wake up.”

“He can’t hear you, boy. Your cowboy’s too far gone from the land of the living.”

Her words make him seethe with a white-hot rage. The more he struggles the tighter the thorns get, but he can’t think of anything else. He _has_ to fight.

The witch turns away a final time and withdraws the last ingredient for her bubbling cauldron, a fine red powder that falls like sand. As soon as it hits the pot the pot gives off a puff of steam, like a velvet cloud of smoke that hangs in the air like a looming thunderstorm.

She dips Arthur’s discarded mug, taking it from where it had fallen on the floor, and dips it in. All the while Charles fights his bindings, taking shallower breaths as the vines constrict his lungs and choke off any protests he has. They grow from the wall behind him, wrapping over his mouth and tugging him sharply against the wall behind him, rattling the snake skeleton interwoven in it.

Her grin reeks of evil as she stares him down with the eyes of a spirit, yellow and bright like those of a cougar’s. The young face fades away to the ugly, rotting one of exposed bone and molten flesh when she raises the cup to her lips. The look in her eyes speaks of promise, bewitching and taunting him all at once when she tips the mug back and swallows the dark black fluid.

It dribbles down her chin, running in rivulets when she suddenly stops, spitting and hissing like a wet cat. Charles watches, mute and suffocating from the tightening grasp of his bindings, as she roars with an unholy sound and drops the mug to the ground. When the contents spill as the witch convulses, Charles picks out the delicate white petal of a lady of the night orchid, lying untouched in the oil slick.

The witch screams loud and with a piercing cry, her anguish haunting as she claws at her face. Only to pull back her hands, mouth bubbling with black blood that drips from her eyes and nose, to see sand falling from where her fingers are.

She screams again, candles in the room burning hot and bright as their shadows dance up the walls of vines and illuminate the skeletal appearance of the witch. The black of her shadowy cloak fades into gray sand, the rest of her following in short order until it swallows up her screams.

Where the witch once stood is now a pile of ash, some floating in the air as the shadows of the cabin abandon it to follow their master. Charles coughs, squinting through the gritty burn in his eyes when the vines holding him fall slack.

He rips off the vines and rushes to Arthur, who no longer is swallowed by the white glow. Instead he lies slack, unmoving when Charles calls to him and shakes him to try to wake him. The longer he goes without moving only deepens Charles’ worst thoughts, considering churning them into beliefs as his mind races, processing too many things at once.

Then Arthur comes to life, sputtering and gasping. He chokes and coughs, red sand falling from his lips and staining his clothes when he glances up to Charles. “Charles…?” he coughs, voice rough and rusted from lack of use.

Charles starts to tug at the vines holding Arthur when he feels the heat of the candles burning higher. “We need to get out of here,” he says, working fast at pulling Arthur free. The bones around Arthur rattle and scatter when Charles helps him to his feet, but not before Arthur grabs his hat sitting on the skull of a moose.

With one arm slung around Charles’ shoulder, the two manage to escape the cabin before the candles go up in flames, setting the entire cabin alight. They stumble to safety, turning back to witness the cabin be engulfed in black flames as thick smoke rises from within.

Arthur, to his credit, looks more alive than he has in a while. There’s a brightness that’s returned to his eyes, freed of the shadow that once lingered there. He sucks in a deep breath, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and glancing to Charles incredulously.

“I—” Arthur starts, uncertain, when the two are interrupted by the logs holding up the cabin collapse with loud cracks and snaps. The cabin caves in on itself, black flames reaching up to everything within reach.

As soon as they’re a safe distance away, the heavy air of the woods letting up with each step, Arthur leans his weight on a tree and coughs. Charles moves to help him, concerned, but Arthur shakes his head and spits on the ground.

“I,” Arthur says after an exhausted breath, addled but okay, “am _never_ picking flowers again.”

The beginnings of a smile come to Charles’ face as Blue and Taima find them, having torn free of where they were hitched. Which Charles is thankful for, not wanting to know what exactly could be out there. Or was. “Not even for money? You said it pays well.” An inkling tells him the flower habit may have just saved their lives. Oh well.

“Mr. Smith, if you ever suggest something so damn dumb again, I’m gonna make you eat a flower,” Arthur threatens, but there’s a hapless smile that’s tugging at him too and he doesn’t seem so serious. He scowls for added effect, but it doesn’t last. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna get the hell outta here and come up with an excuse for why I left camp in the first place. Maybe figure out what the hell happened while I was out.”

He goes to sling himself up on Blue, who looks startled but calmer now, though his eyes speak volumes of his wariness. Charles follows directly behind, giving a pat and a comforting murmur to Taima standing close by.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to come with,” he gives, watching Arthur fondly as he adjusts his saddlebags. “I need to think of a reason too. Dutch might be angry with both of us.”

“Who cares?” Arthur laughs, rolling his eyes like a petulant child when he turns around to Charles. “No one does any damn work anyway, besides you ‘n me…”

“If you say so,” Charles agrees, and finds himself trapped in a kiss that Arthur pulls him into. One that’s lighthearted and sweet, though with just a bite of Arthur’s snark as he nips Charles' lower lip and pulls away. He takes off his hat in a mocking grand gesture and shoves it onto Charles' head.

“Sound real sure of yourself, Mr. Smith,” he teases, heaving himself up and into Blue’s saddle. He waits, watching Charles with a sly expression.

Charles follows on Taima, turning her around and walking her up next to Arthur. “Sure,” he says, and kicks his heels to her sides to take off in a blind rush.

“Hey!” Arthur calls in the distance, and spurs Blue into racing after them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations to me for finishing my first multi-chapter fic ever. Also, foresight is a necessary skill.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


End file.
